


ocean deep

by auras



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Character Study, Experimental Style, Gen, Lance (Voltron)-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 13:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14955575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auras/pseuds/auras
Summary: The depths of the waters pull him under, and he breathes easy.





	ocean deep

**Author's Note:**

> a quiche (quickie) that i did while forgoing sleep and procrastinating on my other works
> 
> un-beta'd, sorry

 

 _But the song of water  
_ _is a thing eternal._

 **Federico García Lorca,** _Collected Poems_

✩

 

The first time he had heard it was during one of those motivational speeches that the school committee organised and made everyone sit through.

 _You’re special, made of stardust, born of the stars_ , or something like that. He’d snorted. What a load of bullshit, he had thought.

 

* * *

 

When Lance first sees the blue lion in the cave on Earth, he feels an ancient magic from the lion course through his veins. It pulls at him, beckoning. Like the call of the ocean, or a siren’s song. And who was he to deny?

He runs his fingers across the lion’s control panel and grasps at the controls firmly. It feels familiar in his hands.

 _You_. The blue lion rumbles, her voice clear in his head. It cuts through the fog of doubt and hesitation in his mind. The conviction in her voice is the only thing he can hear.

He inhales deeply, like he does before diving into the water, and pushes accelerate.

 

* * *

 

The first time, his bayard takes the form of an energy rifle.

Allura tells him that the bayards were suited to each paladin’s individual preferences. Lance wonders whether the previous blue paladin had used a gun like his as well.

The first time he uses his bayard, he watches as the beam of energy clashes against metal, sending sparks scattering haphazardly. The reflection on the sparks cause them to flicker sharply, illuminating the room with an entrancing light, like sparklers from back home. The dangerous glint of the sparks is matched by the one that flashes in his steel-blue irises.

The jolt from each subsequent shot sends something stirring in him. He realises that it doesn’t matter whether the previous paladin had used a rifle too. The blue bayard—the rifle—it was _his_ now.

The rifle fits easily in Lance’s hands; one hand supports the weapon while the other curls around its trigger. The bright streaks of blue-white shooting out from his rifle hold a power immense enough to knock even the largest enemies to their feet. He fires with deadly accuracy.

The blue bayard is power and precision. _Lance_ is power and precision.

He is their sharpshooter.

 

* * *

 

Lance thinks he has never known true fear until Voltron.

Out in space, defending the universe, the reality and possibility of death being two breaths away suddenly becomes very real.

He feels the fear that prickles at his skin when he sees seven-feet tall galra soldiers charging towards him, firearms in their hands. He feels the fear that grips him when he sees neon purple lasers of the Galra ships aimed at his lion, ready to bring them down. He feels the fear that rattles his bones when Zarkon lunges at them, preparing to strike.

The fear, Lance thinks, is a double-edged sword. It sends a chill that trickles down his spine, threatening to paralyse him. But it also ignites a blazing fire from deep within his very core. He just has to make the right choice.

 _Are you with me, team?_ Shiro asks through the comms.

Lance feels the rush of fear mingled with adrenaline pumping through his body. His chest tightens in excitement and his hands tremble with anticipation.

The fear was okay. It made him stronger, faster, smarter. It made him human; it made him a survivor.

He plunges his bayard into its slot. Blue roars, and it echoes throughout the galaxy.

Lance grins.

_Let’s go down swinging._

 

* * *

 

The second time, his bayard takes the form of a sniper rifle.

Allura had said that it’s rare, but not unheard of, for bayards to take on more than one form for skilled paladins and Lance had beamed.

He closes one eye as he looks through the lens; the crosshairs allow for clearer aim on his enemies and the zoom a longer range.

He crouches, perched on a ledge, high above his team as he helps to take out stray Galra soldiers that got too close for comfort. That was his job, to ensure the safety of his friends and make sure that none of their enemies reached into a range that would endanger them.

Lance doesn’t mind being apart from the action below; he puffs out his chest in pride with each enemy he takes down. He was the quiet pillar of support, the protector of his team.

The sniper rifle rests on his shoulder, steady in his hands. He tilts his head slightly, and his fingers tighten around the trigger.

Lance is very, _very_ good at what he does and his shots always, always hit their mark.

 

* * *

 

When Shiro vanishes after their fight with Zarkon, the loss shatters and breaks the team like a brittle piece of pottery.

Lance, too, feels the impact of it as he stares at the empty cockpit of the black lion. The black lion remains silent after her paladin is gone, but whenever Lance runs a hand along the lion’s smooth muzzle, he feels an inexplicable wave of melancholy.

Keith, Lance finds, is the one who is most affected by the loss of the black paladin. The other boy tries to shrink away, keeping to himself, a raging spark of self-destruction snapping at anyone who tried to get close.

Lance—although he selfishly wishes to deny it—knows that Shiro and the black lion chose Keith to take up the role as black paladin for a reason. It was not Lance's place to challenge that decision; the best he could do was to support his leader and his friend. It's probably what Shiro would have wanted as well. 

Lance is careful, treading light around Keith like one might with a wounded animal. He stays by Keith’s side, a comforting presence ready to be there for him if the other boy needed.

Lance is there when Keith cracks and breaks under the pressure and grief, the reality of losing his brother crashing down on him.

The other boy crumples like fragile crepe paper, shaking as he cries into Lance’s chest, leaving creases from where his angry hands fist at the soft cotton of Lance’s shirt and damp patches from where his tears seep through.

Lance does not mind; he can smooth out the wrinkles later and wash his shirt to get rid of the stains left on them. The marks are not permanent.

He murmurs words of comfort to Keith, his voice soft and calming to quell the other boy’s rage, letting it dissipate slowly. Lance wraps his arms around Keith, engulfing him, and allows the other boy to sink into the comfort of it.

There is a tiny, stray flicker of hope that blooms in his chest; like a wildflower that grows and gradually blossoms after a forest fire.

They were still a team, even after everything. Slowly, Lance promises, they’ll work to pick up the pieces and fix things, together.

 

* * *

 

The third time, his bayard takes the form of a broadsword.

 _You have greatness within_ , Allura tells him.

The sword is heavier than the previous forms that the bayard had taken on. He speculates that maybe it is because it had been Keith’s bayard. It feels unfamiliar to wield such a weapon since close combat wasn’t Lance’s specialty.

Still, Lance practices and practices until he can swing the sword with ease, and strike where he wants it to. Wielding a broadsword is a completely new experience from all of the previous forms of his bayard.

The broadsword is the first one-handed weapon that he wields, but he finds that with practice, his right hand is able to grasp the hilt with confidence, and swing the sword fluidly with ease. The sword is like an extension of himself; the weapon weighty but firm and resolute, sharp and dangerous.

Lance takes a decisive swipe at the drones in front of him, and they let out a monotone buzz before dropping like flies.

Perhaps he is channeling the spirit of King Alfor through the sword bayard, or maybe it was the indomitable spirit of the red paladin before him, but Lance feels unstoppable. Lance thrusts his shoulders back, feeling the strength in his stride and swing. The red bayard hums softly in his hand, and Lance grins.

He is the red paladin now; the right-hand man, the steady and unwavering flame that burns even fiercer in the face of adversity. But he had also been the blue paladin; the unforgiving warning of a sudden storm, the relentless waves of the ocean that crash onto shore with vigour. Together, an inferno and a storm are a dangerous mix.

He is a paladin of Voltron; he is unbreakable.

 

* * *

 

Gradually, something else fills his body, his soul, his entire being.

It is no longer fear that he feels on the battlefield.

When Lance flies with the red lion, he relaxes and trusts; he gives himself to the lion, feeling their connection and the surety of every decision he makes. Red obeys as he dips and dives in fluid motions, his graceful movements a reflection of the paladin who pilots him.

Lance takes out ship after ship; an unstoppable hurricane that leaves the destruction of its enemies in its wake.

He whoops when Keith calls for the team to form Voltron, and laughs in excitement as his leader gives him the command and he yells out _form sword_.

Lance presses the red bayard into the slot. It stays in its place, firm. He watches the sword manifest and light up in flames in front of him and hears the threatening growl from the red lion filling his mind as it locks on to Lotor’s robot in front of them.

He feels a wave of pride and confidence as he watches the sword move to his command.

There is no longer any fear.

Instead, it has been replaced by an insatiable need to push himself to the limits of his potential. It is the same desire that fuels him when he charges into battle each time, the desire that pushes his limbs forward before his mind can rationalise, the desire to prove himself one more time.

He hears Keith yell another command and Lance roars out a battle cry, slamming the controls forward.

He was no longer just a paladin; he is the one who drives the team forward, he is the one who holds the team together, the one who would stay strong regardless of what happened.

He is the soul of Voltron.

 

* * *

 

Was he born of the stars?

Lance feels a hand rest on his shoulder gently. He turns his head. Keith is looking at him with the ghost of a smile dancing on his lips. _Follow me,_ Keith does not need say. Lance feels his mouth quirk up in a smirk. He grips his bayard tighter and turns back to where his lion is waiting to take them home. _Always,_ his answer remains.

No, he was not born of the stars. He was not some celestial being made of stardust, from stars that have collapsed and burned out.

No—

He was rain; soothing and life-giving.

He was a storm; unpredictable and untameable.

He was the ocean; beautifully dangerous and infinitely deep.

He was a force of nature, unyielding. He was a child of the earth.

He is Lance, the boy from Cuba.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> \-----
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](http://kestrels.tumblr.com)  
> (talk to me about lance)


End file.
